“This one was unwise,” said Omar, pointing at the woman in the square. Omar was my translator. As dark skinned as most, Omar was different. It’s because his English was actually decent. Decent and British. Omar moved to the caliphate from Britain and let everyone know it. He clearly had never been to the Middle East, because his British was better than his Arabic. Even I could tell that.

I met Omar after the party. He was in some other town finding ways to get rid of all the trash that was starting to pile up in everyone’s houses. It was beyond belief just how dirty the place was. The garbage was just as ancient as the houses, but somehow younger than I was. Omar was pissed when he found out that he missed a party in order to deal with trash. He seemed a little pissed at me, but he’d been showing me the ropes. He was the only person here who I could communicate with.

He’d introduced me to people and started to translate for me. Finally, I could speak to other kids in this place. They weren’t half bad. They definitely didn’t take shit and were smug beyond belief. But they all were interested in being my friend. They kept asking about America, USA, and Omar happily translated. Every time they started talking to me, cracking jokes, they would get way too close into my face. They would laugh, but it seemed like they were trying to eat me. Or scare me. When Omar translated, I knew he was lying. He would make it seem less mean than what they were saying. What the hell could I do, I just thanked them. I learned that shukran meant “thank you.”

“Working with you, Hefty is lots better than what I doing before,” Omar told me. Apparently he was cleaning dishes, picking up garbage, and taking care of the laundry until he was assigned to me. He’d joined to become a blatant badass, but instead he watched as kids younger than him got weapons training. All while he cleaned their toilets. Translating for an American was a step up for him. ISIS was one hell of a place. I didn’t even want to be there and I was higher up the totem pole than Omar.

We were all in the Afkazi town square. This was a key base for ISIS, and the town was constantly shifting. ISIS was reshaping everything, and from what Omar told me, this was a big day. While the whole town was brought to the square, there was a large row of girls in burkas in the front. In the splash zone. “This is important for girls to witness. They’re to be made our brides, but lack discipline,” said Omar, “For this, we’re making an example.”

The example was a woman being punished in public. This was the main event. Tonight’s entertainment: the weeping widow gets skewered.

A bearded guard held a blunt, irregular knife, welded and struck to make a bold, round, dirty shape. It was more or less a metal dick. On a screw driver. Hooded men marched through the crowd, careful to break past the hordes of men, women, and children. They held this captured woman cuffed under her elbows. She was weeping in a light patter. Her tears chipped through people like a grasshopper in a wheat field. She was choking on snot. Everyone with eyes saw the sheer terror that beamed from hers.

The woman, now putting up a little fight, was tied at the wrists by two metal chains. They spread her apart like a backwards crucifix. Applause leaked out from the crowd. An unenthusiastic slow clap emerged from the collection of turbans, soccer jerseys, AK-47s, and shame. The crowds did not want this kind of violence, and the young girls were stiff. I imagined them shaking under their robes.

A man appeared over the top of the building the woman was strapped to. He had a microphone in hand. It was a Yeti mic. It was weird seeing an American product out here. And not just in the desert, but this shit hole desert where murder was for breakfast. Somehow in this dusty place, they had gotten what looked like a $2000 sound system straight out of Guitar Center.

Grabbing the mic, the MC’s Arabic drifted through the town like sand in the wind. Omar leaned in to my ear. “For crime of adultery after death of her true husband, Al-Hasa Ezral will be burned, from where she make haram.”

A blowtorch sparked up and the hooded guys were now striking fire to their iron DeWalt tool.

“Wait,” I said, “she’s being punished for being a widow?”

“She can not choose who she lives with. Only Allah may dictate her future,” ripped Omar.

“Her husband is dead. It’s not her fault. What did she do?.”

“She did not follow pledge to Allah and marriage. Hefty, you do not understand she is bad?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Look,” said Omar frozen onto the sight in front of him.

I saw the DeWalt go red. In the late afternoon sun, the iron glowed. The man atop the building yelled violently with his hands in the air. The crowd clamored, and the heat of the sun defied time. Sweat dripped into my left eye off my brow.

In a brief moment of hope, the DeWalt lost its orange glow. The soldier holding it started to walk away. I thought I might see him chase away a crowd member. Maybe this was all for a show, a big practical joke.

The second soldier had quickly raised up the woman’s dress, revealing a bare bottom. Many girls in the crowd turned their eyes away. The DeWalt wielding soldier, with energy, charged her, winding up his arm. He dug the tool deep in between her legs. The woman had a brief reaction. There was a whine, a scream that sounded cut, as if by scissors, and then a sneeze-like cough of acceptance.

She was victim.

Her head went limp, with her legs, and she slumped, held up only by the chains. And she was nothing anymore. There were cheers, but there was also silence. What a confused crowd.

Stop it, you bastard. Can’t you see she’s done.

There’s nothing left of her.

You took it all away.

“Stop it. STOP I—”

Vomit rose through my throat and spilled across the bricks. It splashed all over, getting on Omar’s sandals. My vision instantly went double. A nausea grew up through my chest like Mexican crystals. I tried to shoot my shoulder’s back up, but no give. My abs didn’t comply. My knees buckled as I fell into my own puke. I was setting a terrible example for the brotherhood. Everyone could see.

“Get UP!” hissed Omar, clearly embarrassed. “You’re making us look bad in front of our wives.”

What’s this “our” wives. We were all in the same group, all the kids I mean. On the side of the space. Our wives. Oh… the burkas?

I looked up and saw the burkas in front. They were now visibly trembling. They were shorter than everyone else. They were girls. I couldn’t see how young they were, but I could tell by their general shape and size that they were barely high-school aged. Maybe even 6th graders. These are brides? I wondered. My gut did flippy things again, but there wasn’t much left for me to throw up.

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Arabic trembled through the microphone again. I looked up and could see that the day was dimming. Omar was over it, as far as taking care of me. He let go of me, and said, “Compose yourself and claim your wife before all the good ones are snatched up.” Before the women could even start tending to the poor execution victim, it turned into a free for all. All the kids, all of them, my friends, they ran like wolves for the girls.

All the good ones? You can’t even tell. You can’t even see what they look like. Who they are.

I was shaky at the knees and wanted a minute, but I had to keep looking. To see if this wasn’t just a dream. These little kids, these devils, were running and grabbing at the girls. One boy was smacking a burka into compliance. Two were fighting for one girl, each pulling one of her arms. These were my friends? I don’t even think Johnny could do something so horrible.

I put my head down. Down into my own vomit. Gross. “God,” I said, “Do something, God. For the love of G… you. Do something.” Then I noticed a shadow step in front of me. I looked up and it was Samir, the “pew pew pew” kid. He had two girls in his hands. One was shorter than him, and one had more meat. He kicked at her legs, the big girl, and made her get on her knees in front of me. He said something in Arabic to me, followed with a wink and a “pew pew pew” and then ripped his other girl away.

I looked up at the burka with some foreign girl underneath. She wore a net-like visor to block her eyes. I imagined her being a reptilian underneath the net thing. Maybe some kind of space alien. I could imagine whatever I wanted. She didn’t look like anything more than a Halloween costume to me. In fact, it almost looked like I was staring at a monitor, into a computer screen. Imagining that made her seem more human for some reason. We were in matching positions, both on our knees looking at one another. I could sense her fear. I wondered if she could see mine.

More Arabic was proclaimed, followed by some roars, and some music. I heard Omar’s English in the storm of Arabic. He was trying to translate for me across a the screaming crowd of people. “Take her, make her your wife. Hefty! Take her! make her! Your Wife!” The children were grabbing at their new “wives” and taking them away. Back toward our barracks. Where they gave me an actual room instead of a cell. If you could even call it a room. I looked back at the girl, and she tipped her head down. Her whole body was stuck. I was finally gaining my strength back. Maybe it was all the adrenaline around me. Standing up, I grew taller, raising inch-by-inch, gaining more power over her. Over my wife. My big fat wife.

As I saw my power, my man-ness eclipse her, I realized what it all was about. Power. I had power over this woman. I could feel my hands sweat. I could see the blondie from the cruise, laughing at me. At my sweat stains. Hurting me. Boy, didn’t blondie have a tough life, mocking me like that. I wish she knew what it felt like to be Hefty.

I started to get angry, and my breath came back to me. I wiped my moist hands on my pants. Then I reached down and touched my “wife’s” shoulder. She flinched away, like her back was against a wall. I recoiled my hand. Then I reached back for her, this time taking her hand. She had smooth gloves on. Of course, so I wouldn’t see her fingernails and get so horny I wanted to jack off, or whatever. I grabbed for her hand, and then helped her up. She came to my level, and I saw her, looking down. I looked down into her mask, or net, or whatever. I started to see some eyes inside there. They were frozen eyes.

The world around us was boisterous. Music, crowds, commotion, the latent scent of burned genitals. And me and my wife. My wife and me.

I pulled her along and tried to wiggle away her resistance. She didn’t want to come with me, but she did. I could feel it in her hand. Honestly, at that moment I was thankful for her gloves. My hands were so sweaty I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’m fat as shit, I could believe that, but they were a new level of moist. I didn’t have to worry about her judging my sweaty hands.

I moved her along through the square, to my barracks. The hallways were very loud. Muffled screams came from the boy’s rooms. They were all “enjoying” their wives. The thought of what was going on made me queasy. Nowhere in my life did I think this was correct. It wasn’t. Was it?

What am I even doing?

I took her over to my room, led her in, and closed the door. As it shut, she started to sob silently. I’ve heard a lot of girls cry in my life, but this reminded me of Mom. She used to cry like that, thinking no one could comprehend her pain. I motioned for her to sit down, and then I joined her. I was as far away from her as possible. I just watched her. She put her head down. I tasted dried puke on my teeth.

I seriously didn’t know what to do. I mean, I watched porn. A lot of it, so I knew how it worked, but like, did I start with saying something to get in the mood? Not that she’d even understand you, genius. Would I ask her to take off her burka? Would she keep her burka on? Would she even want to have sex? I legit didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, and I didn’t wanna offend her. This wasn’t an easy religion. I opened my mouth to speak, but then closed it. I put my head down. We just sat there for a while. It was nice to not be in a prison cell.

I let her cry it out. I felt horrible. Oh god, and she just saw that execution. Remembering that made me heave. What was wrong with these people?

“What’s wrong with these people?” I said to her. She looked up with her computer mask. “Wasn’t that completely fucked up? How could they do that to that lady? Like her husband was dead, are you fucking serious? How does that make sense?”

She just stared at me. Oh yea, she didn’t speak English.

“Wait… you don’t speak American? English? You know… Pee fart butt,” I said to her. She didn’t flinch. “Wow you really can’t… I swear I didn’t realize they were going to do… Wait, you can’t understand… hmm… I like to put peanut butter on my butthole… slowly.” Nothing! I could say whatever I wanted to this girl—to my wife. She put her head down, defeated and probably anxious. Wow. She didn’t understand any of it.

“So, I don’t know how any of this shit works. Like, seriously, I’m sorry you had to see any of that. Like what the hell is wrong with these people? And then to have us attack you after that? This place feels like hell on Earth. And I’m sorry, but ISIS, muslims, whatever the fuck isfucked up, killing people like that, using an iron dick. What THE HELL! AHH!” I smacked the carpet, and she flinched.

“Oh crap, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m… My bad. Real talk, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I’m so mad. Like you know they already tried to kill me? They burned my hand,” I showed her the scar, and she seemed to acknowledge it. “And now what, they want us to have sex? Like I’ve… Well… well you can’t even understand me, so whatever, but I’ve never even kissed a girl. I’ve like barely hugged a girl. And honestly, most people see me, and their first thought is probably ‘oh god, what a fat kid, and sweaty, sweaty-fat-kid, get him away from me before he gets my clothes wet’. Like one time I was at a dance and girls were literally fighting with themselves over who wouldn’t have to dance with me. Like right in front of me. And it’s like a dance, so I just had to be cool with it, cause all my friends are there, and I can’t just be some pussy bitch and cry. But it’s just messed up that I have to be this person. This fat blob that everyone is cool with hating. And that everyone thinks they can just make fun of like I’m okay with it. Like I enjoy being fat, and having the whole world see it, and mock me for it.” I was crying at this point. Tears were rolling down my face, and I smacked the carpet again. I didn’t even care if she was scared by it at that point. “I mean shit, there are days I’d rather just be invisible so that people don’t have to see how fat I am and react. I wish… well hell I wish I could just wear a burka like you. At least people couldn’t judge me for who I am. They could just look at some shape passing. Like, look at you. I don’t even know what you look like. That’s awesome. That’s so cool, that you get to have that. That you have an invisibility blanket from all the assholes and bitches in this world that I can’t escape from. I wish I could have that.”

I sobbed. I let it out.

And then I felt a hand on my knee. I looked up, past the tears. She had edged up to me. Looking at me. I turned away. She moved closer, placing her other gloved hand on my face. I lost it again, and she grabbed me. I cried into her shoulder, and she cried into mine. “I’m so sorry that you have to be like this,” I said to this poor, crying girl—who now had to be my wife. “I’m so sorry if I did anything to make this happen. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s… what’s going on and I’m so scared.”

I grabbed her so tight and I didn’t want to let go. I was afraid that she would be just like everyone else, afraid to have me around them. Afraid to touch my shirt without recoiling. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just didn’t know what was going on anymore. We remained wrapped in each other for a while. It went on a little too long, and we both unwrapped.

“So… what’s your name?” I asked her. She just looked on. “Oh right. Name. WHAT’S. YOUR. NAME?” She didn’t get it.

I pointed at myself. “Hefty.”

I did it again, “HEFTY.” I kept pointing. “HEFTY. I’m HEFTY.”

Then I pointed at her. I made an “I don’t know” gesture with my arms and pointed at her.

I repeated this a few times, and she finally said something. It was too quiet for me to hear.

“What?” I said, then put a hand to my ear.

“Izmeghada.”

“Izmigada?” I asked.

“lala. Izme. Ghada.”

“Lala. That’s my mom’s name,” I said.

“La! Ghada!”she spurted.

Ghada. My wife’s name was Ghada.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ghada.”